So I like hot stuff. I’m not like, a dick about it. I don’t brag because there are people out there that can handle waaaay hotter foods than me. It’s not a competition.
So I’m at Tijuana Flats, a “mexican” food restaurant chain famous for their hot sauce bar. All in all, what they put out on the bar isn’t the spiciest stuff in the world, but you’ll find some delicious gems in there.
I immediately look at whatever is marked black as hottest for the day (they change them) and immediately go to pump some into the little paper containers provided when…
“Whooaaa, sweetheart you don’t want to do that,”
I turned around and there’s this skinny guy in jeans and a logo polo. There’s another dude wearing the same shirt, so they must have come here from some sad IT job. I’m a little taken aback at this dude’s presumption that I am ignorant to what I’m doing, but I blow it off.
”Nah, man, it’s got the black label, I haven’t tried this one yet.”
”Are you sure? It’s really spicy.”
”I’m pretty sure dude.”
”I don’t think you should, because it was a bit much for me.”
At this point I’m feeling patronized. I stare at him.
“It’s fine. Really.”
“Oooookay,” He says in this exasperated, don’t-say-I-didn’t-warn-you kind of voice. I get my hot sauce and sit down. Food arrives, I taste it with a chip first to test. It’s super sweet, actually. I dump the whole thing on my taco. I don’t know if he’s watching.
I go up to the counter and ask the manager to ring me up a bottle of the sauce to take home. It was pretty delicious! Manager says he’ll bring it to my table.
They bring it, I pay, and the server asks if I’m into hot sauces - of course I say yes. Hot Sauce Police is now watching. She brings me an assortment of sauces they do not serve at the bar because of liability reasons. One of them was rated at 1.5 million Scoville units. I bought all of them, signing the credit card slip as he watches.
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